Babala's Correction (8 page)

‘Whore!' spat one woman.

‘Harlot!' hissed another.

Helpless though she was in her almost total bondage, the Lady Fazath gave a few well-placed kicks, scattering the bullies like dominoes falling one after the other. Babala lifted her head just enough to give Fazath a look of gratitude.

At last they reached the podium. Graf, Capel, Bart and Peli positioned themselves as close to the small stage as they could. The other girls waiting to be sold were clad in simple white gowns, which although flimsy, preserved just a little modesty. Looking at them surreptitiously Babala could not help the envy that twisted in her stomach. They looked so clean and neat, almost virginal, and even more, they had no marks left by the whip. Babala's cramped hands strayed to the latest welt, the one that spanned her waist from the Slavemaster's lash.

‘We have an excellent parcel of slave girls for you this morning, ladies and gentlemen,' cried the Slavemaster. The babble of the crowd died to a soft murmur at his commanding voice. He pushed a slender dark-haired girl forward. Babala judged her age to be no more than her own.

‘This one will make an excellent body slave for some discerning gentleman,' he continued and, as he spoke, he ripped the girl's gown to bare her breasts. They were pert, the nipples small, pink as a maiden's. ‘These will fill out nicely with regular treatment,' he added, and patted each breast in turn, first with his fingers and then lifting the delicate curve of the underswell with the whip handle.

The girl blushed with humiliation and tried to gather the torn folds of her gown together to hide her breasts.

‘Stop that!' ordered the Slavemaster. ‘You are here to be shown, and do you think your new master will allow such false modesty?'

The crowd sniggered and the girl choked back a sob as the Slavemaster ripped her gown further, baring a flat belly that was adorned by a gold ring at her navel. From the ring were suspended two fine gold chains that were pulled to the girl's crotch, and Babala could see a glint of gold where the outer lips of her cunny split.

‘This one has been kept chaste,' said the Slavemaster, with a meaningful look at Babala. ‘She was properly brought up and her sex pouch has been kept unsullied by men. Her mistress kept her cunt behind this golden door.' He slapped the girl's inner thighs with the whip handle to indicate that she should spread them. ‘Tilt,' he ordered brusquely.

Obediently, the girl did as she was told and the crowd's murmur grew as between the parted legs they saw a fitted gold cup, locked about the girl's body by the fine chains.

‘Turn round,' he commanded, ‘and bend forward, thighs kept nicely apart.' The girl, in her embarrassment, hesitated, although only for a moment. ‘Do as you're told!' The crack of a palm upon a curvaceous buttock broke the sudden hushed silence in the market square.

Babala bit her lip as she heard sobs break in earnest and saw the girl's spread legs tremble as she bent forward. Again an excited murmur ran through the crowd. Between the parted buttocks could clearly be seen a gold padlock, positioned exactly at the girl's bottom hole.

‘She must ask to be released for natural purposes,' explained the Slavemaster. ‘Such a ploy keeps them subservient, you see, ladies and gentlemen.'

The girl was pushed to the very edge of the podium and her tattered gown was drawn from her shoulders to leave her completely naked. The Slavemaster ordered her to stand with legs apart and cunny tilted to display the chastity cup and the plump flesh lips that cocooned its sides.

‘Head up and dry your eyes,' hissed the Slavemaster, chucking the girl under the chin with the whip handle. ‘Look boldly upon the crowd and try to smile. Do you think your new master will enjoy a girl who weeps and is afraid when he approaches with his cock at the ready to open her maidenhead?'

Babala's guards were amazed at the number of shekels the girl fetched, and they looked enviously as she was taken away by her new owner, a large man with fierce eyes and a whip held ready in his free hand. The girl looked pleadingly over her shoulder at Babala, but there was nothing to be done. Nothing.

At last it was Babala's turn to be pushed to the front of the podium, and the Slavemaster was scathing in his remarks about her.

‘A beauty, this one,' he said, ‘but much used, I'm afraid, ladies and gentlemen. She is also marked by the whip, although she heals well.' He turned Babala round and tapped the round hillocks of her bottom to point out the paling welts. ‘And here,' he said, turning her again to lift her breasts and stroke her belly. He tapped her again. ‘Tilt to reveal your cunny, girl.'

Sapphire eyes wide with pleading, Babala shook her head almost imperceptibly, knowing that the Slavemaster's seed was still coating the golden curls of her outer lips.

‘Tilt!' he snapped, slapping her breasts, so with legs tensed and parted Babala tilted her cunny forward as he demanded.

‘Use your fingers to reveal yourself further.' His voice was low and his dark eyes hooded with lust as he gave the order.

It would do her no good to disobey, Babala knew that, so with trembling fingers she peeled open her outer lips. At the sight of the juicy folds and flushed pink nubbin the crowd gave a howl of glee that rose to a roar when the Slavemaster tapped the bud with the tip of his whip.

‘A beautiful sight, ladies and gentlemen, is it not?' he said. ‘This girl could become quite a conversation piece within your household.'

It was then that he began to push the bulbous knob of the whip handle into the slippery folds. ‘But nothing is perfect,' he continued. ‘She is well used here...'

Babala clutched the bulb with her cunny muscles to show that she remained tight, but the Slavemaster made no mention of it, simply turned her round roughly. ‘And here,' he added, forcing her to bend, the whip handle bulb played about her rear hole.

‘I do not expect you to pay a great deal for such used goods,' announced the Slavemaster, almost sorrowfully. ‘She allowed herself to be used by rough soldiers and they were a little too playful, a little too boisterous in their usage.' He frowned at the guards, shook his head and tutted in a chiding manner.

The crowd was silent until one woman cried out, ‘Whore!' and others took up the cry until the square was a hubbub of catcalls.

‘Quite right, my dear ladies and gentlemen,' he said, grinning widely until the catcalls died down. ‘Nothing but a whore, so I'll have her taken below and then send her to be used in the taverns.'

‘What do you mean?' asked Bart. ‘She gets nothing? Not a shekel?'

The Slavemaster shrugged as he handed her over to a jailer who stood at the back of the podium. ‘I'm afraid so. Too used, you see.'

Babala hung her head in humiliation as the Slavemaster's helper stepped forward. ‘Jailer,' he said, ‘take her below until I have time to deal with her.'

The jailer was a filthy creature and Babala cringed as he clutched her upper arm with his grimy fingers. He wore a greasy square of leather to hide his genitals and his upper body was covered in dark matted hair.

‘A whore, eh?' he hissed through broken, rotted teeth, as he dragged her from the podium and down a flight of worn steps to a maze of dark and dank cells.

‘No, I'm not a whore,' Babala said, through sobs of indignation. ‘I was prepared for the Prince.'

The jailer's filthy free hand slipped down over the pleasing flatness of her tummy to the pad of her pussy mound. ‘And what Prince is that? There is no prince in Brentasi. Only a dictator.'

Babala twisted her body, trying desperately to escape his loathsome advances, but his fingers slipped down further to enter the moist crevice of her sex pouch. She felt his ragged nail stroke the slippery tip of her nubbin and she couldn't help but arch against his touch.

‘And a well trained whore at that,' the foul brute croaked. ‘You love the touch of a man, do you not? See how you thrust against my fingers, urging me to slip them into your warm softness.'

‘It's because I was trained...'

‘Just as I said; a well trained whore.' The jailer twisted her against him, lifting the leather square to reveal his cock, bigger even than Capel's. ‘Not many girls can take this. They scream with horror at the thickness and length of it. I was cursed until the Slavemaster flung you to me.'

‘I was trained by the Taskmaster in the palace of Ellipsis,' Babala insisted, but such was her training that she no longer struggled.

‘Good...' he murmured. ‘Excellent.'

She could feel the massive bulb of his flesh sword opening the dark folds of her cunny and her breathing became more rapid as her traitorous excitement grew.

‘Perhaps you would like to play a little game.' The two were locked together by the gnarled length that was partially inserted between her thighs.

‘As it pleases you, sir,' Babala whispered meekly. Her training went deep, and as the jailer said, perhaps she was too well trained for her own good.

‘Oh, it would greatly please me,' he wheezed, and then pushed her to the darkest corner of a dank cell and she felt the hardness of wood against her bottom, and then she was lifted and placed upon a worn table-like contraption.

‘What is this?' she asked fearfully, her buttocks lifted by a shaped wooden pillow that served to also part her thighs. She felt extremely open and vulnerable.

‘As I said,' murmured the jailer, ‘just a little toy of mine...'

Wrists released from the bonds Babala had worn for two days were immediately clamped wide apart in shackles fixed to the head of the table. Her ankles were similarly spread and clamped securely, and the position in which she was placed lifted her tummy and breasts and offered her fleshpot to her captor. She was rendered totally helpless and at the jailer's mercy.

The bottom pillow thrust up and spread her sex, and she was all too aware that the dim candlelight revealed her pert pink nubbin very clearly against the darkness of her sex folds.

‘How do you feel?' The jailer bent to lap his tongue about each bud of her nipples.

‘V-very open,' admitted Babala.

‘As a whore should be for her client.' The tongue laid a trail of spittle over her raised belly and wetted the upper curls of her cunny.

‘I'm not a whore.' Babala struggled against the iron clamps, but only succeeded in causing her wrists to be chafed by the cold hardness of the iron manacles.

‘Who but a whore would allow herself to be led to this table so willingly?' persisted the odious jailer, shuffling between her straddled thighs. ‘Eh? Answer me that.' He waved his monstrous penis over her like a huge wand. It was thick and full, the skin stretched by its contents, the bulb shining with the slime of pre-issue.

‘The Taskmaster tutored me well,' Babala argued meekly, her eyes fixed upon the waving cock. ‘I was taught to pleasure men, but I am not a whore.'

The jailer grunted and slumped upon her helpless body, and her opening was so slick and ready that he entered her without trouble. A sigh of supreme pleasure whispered from his slobbering lips and Babala could feel him pulsing in her cushiony depths. She could feel him butting at the very limits of her womb, but remembering what the Slavemaster had said about her used condition, she clung like a limpet upon the jailer's cock and watched his eyes open in surprise.

‘How beautiful!' he grunted, drool glistening on his unshaven chin. ‘No woman has done that...' The crushed girl heard his foul breath quicken and become shallow as he shunted deep into her with rapid stabs. But despite his rough appearance she could not help the naughty thrills of pleasure that swirled in her lower belly; could not help the pouting of her breasts against his scrawny chest, the arching of her pussy mound against his butting groin.

‘How now?' bellowed a familiar voice, becoming louder as the owner descended the ancient slimy steps to the cells. ‘What is this?'

The jailer sweated heavily over Babala, wetting the tendrils of golden hair that spread about the smooth and creaking wood of the bench, and with a final pig-like grunt he thrust and released his jets of copious semen into her. He grunted again and struggled to pull his cock from her clutching depths, but when he did his still turgid cock continued to spurt, arcing its cream onto her belly and thighs.

‘She - she tempted me, sir,' he blurted sheepishly, his greasy hair curtaining his bowed face. ‘I could not help myself, sir.'

The newcomer laughed, stepping over to the bench and fingering the cold iron that manacled Babala's wrists. ‘So I see.' The tone dripped sarcasm, and the richly woven and embroidered satin of the Slavemaster's robe rustled in her ears, and she knew that, despite his apparent merriment, he was angry. ‘She clambered onto the rack and locked herself into the clasps herself, I suppose.'

‘More or less, sir,' the hateful jailer confirmed, lacking the intelligence to concoct a more convincing lie of his own, whilst wiping his cock with the greasy square of leather that scarcely covered the thick length.

‘Please, that's not true,' Babala protested, tugging in vain at the iron that shackled at wrists and ankles. She managed to arch her bottom from the carved wooden pillow, as if this would help to release her, and in the gloom she could see two more shadowy figures and hear the clink of chains.